


Wine and Vinegar

by goodnightfern



Series: Up for the Down Stroke [2]
Category: Metal Gear
Genre: All Canon Pairings in Varying Stages of Misery and Ardency, Alternate World History, Dissasociation, Dubious Consent, Hypnosis, M/M, Ocelot's Revolutionary Psychotherapy Treatments, Real Bad Shipping, This is a Sequel It Should Not Have 110 More Hits Than the Prequel So Go Back, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2019-01-27 00:52:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12570024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodnightfern/pseuds/goodnightfern
Summary: [REDACTED] times Ocelot hypnotized Kaz and the one time he didn't.Or, [REDACTED] times Ocelot [REDACTED]Whether the glass is half full or half empty is irrelevant if you drink it down and smash the cup. It's all right. Ocelot will take care of the mess.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Or even: what did I do with all my OceKaz feelings while writing [The Man from Cyrene](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12197427/chapters/27695832)? It's this. I did this.
> 
> Please read that first; I don't know why this has like a hundred more hits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My general approach to using Ocelot as opposed to Adam is that it depends on who he's speaking to at the time, but he loves to be the kitty. I'm no wizard with the DID personas as some excellent Ocelot writers who know who they are might be. Revolver Ocelot is whoever you want him to be indeed.

“-you had to do it.” Adam hears the words before he even opens the door. “Kaz was sticking it wherever he wanted behind your back.”

Adam swings open the door to see John perched on the phantom’s bed, swinging his feet. “What do you think you’re doing?”

John doesn’t even look at him. “Just having a little chat about nuclear disarmament. World peace and all that.”

“He knows about that already. And he knows all he needs to know about Miller.”

“You don’t know the first thing about my relationship with Kaz.”

“You don’t the first thing about how I work with him.”

John gets off the bed with a wobble. Still working his way back on his feet. “Can’t be too hard. What do you do? Wave a little pendulum in front of him?” 

“A combination of sedatives and truth serums, careful psychological coaching, and a _consistent_ voice.”

“He needs to know about Kaz.” 

“I’ve told him.”

“Hm. Does he know he's a spying whore?”

“You know what Miller’s been doing for the past nine years for you. In order for this to work, that relationship needs to be stable. He’s going to be the one thing that man will be able to hold on to. We weren’t able to get any recordings from your old business, after all.”

John flexes his hand around the hem of his gown. His eye is fixed on the dazed man in the bed. With a snort he lets go, starts pacing around the room. It hurts to see the beast caged, but John can barely do twenty push-ups right now. 

Time is running out. They need to move fast, and the last thing he needs is John throwing another wrench in the process. 

“He had a… hm. A _thing with Kaz,_ ” John says, not quitting his pacing. “Thought they could hide it, but I saw the way they looked at each other.” He shoots the phantom a look Adam can't quite parse. "Smart guy, you know. Real wild card."

“That's why he's the perfect candidate for the role.”

“Hah. Yeah, I bet.” 

"I can personally vouch for his trustworthiness."

Now John's fixing Adam with the same unreadable look. "Can you? Then tell me everything he knows about Kazuhira Miller."

“John… if there’s something he needs to know about Miller, tell me it now.”

John stares through Adam. 

“Any essentials? Any secret codes you had? You were lovers for years.”

“Lovers,” John spits. “Hm. I guess that’s one way to put it.” 

John hasn’t heard the way Miller talks about him. John hasn’t seen Miller curled sobbing over a bottle. John will never know that the first time Ocelot fucked him, high out of their mutual minds, Miller mumbled his name. When John first woke up, he’d called for Kaz too. But the longer John rots away in this hospital room the more bitter he gets.

Ocelot thought a lot of things before his Boss woke up. Now that Big Boss is awake, Big Boss makes the decisions. Keeping Miller out of the loop is going to be Ocelot’s job, though, and the absolute least John could do is not complicate things at the last minute. 

If Miller finds out, Miller will go crawling back to Cipher and destroy all of Adam's careful work there. No, Adam is the only spy on Big Boss they are allowed to have. They’ve been over all of this. To _exhaustion._

But John has every reason to be paranoid.

John sits down on his own bed, panting lightly. His eye closes and it’s still a surprise to see how easily he gets tired. 

After Eva there hadn’t been anyone serious. Certainly not Adam. No, it wasn’t until Big Boss’s Big Midlife Crisis came complete with a hot young blonde that anything warranted a closer look. It was cute. Adam didn’t get jealous. Kaz was indeed a hot young blonde, cunning yet vulnerable all at once, with a miserly streak that must have driven John wild. A true conquest - yes, he’s heard. Kaz didn’t make it easy. 

But it doesn’t matter if John has complicated feelings for his ex. V came to, and there's no time left. 

He hasn’t told John that Miller’s in Afghanistan. It doesn’t matter. If the 40th army doesn’t get him XOF will, and if Miller breaks it’s not like he knows enough to hurt them. The phantom will get him out of there before anything truly nasty goes on, besides. 

Keeping John safe is paramount to anything else. 

The phantom is blinking. When Ocelot calls the glazed eye opens and focuses.

“See? He knows my voice.” 

Of course the phantom isn’t quite perfect. Even Ocelot can’t flatter himself that much. But he represents years of Ocelot’s most delicate work, and he’ll do.

“He needs to respond to my voice,” John says stubbornly.

“I’ll work that in. Later. You’ll be the voice inside his head soon enough but right now, he listens to me.”

John pouts about it while Ocelot massages the phantom and puts him through stretches. He still pouts about it when Adam turns to John's own back, working out the kinks from whatever abusive training he’s been forcing himself through. 

“Don’t let me fall asleep,” John warns, but he passes out soon enough after the blowjob. 

Ocelot presses one kiss to his forehead before he leaves to speak to the doctor, check with the mechanic about the bike, inspect the whaling ship, make a wire transfer to South Africa, place calls to London and the States and Eva and a few other sets of eyes, make sure Miller hasn’t gotten himself killed -

All in a day's work. Every line he’s flung out over the past nine years has snapped taut, now. They're almost there.

It won’t be long till the Afghan War brings the USSR to its breaking point. The CIA won’t be able to hold their ground for much longer. The roots he’s planted in South Africa want nothing to do with Moscow or Washington but are willing to work with their own very special white friend on the inside. Once all this falls apart - which it will - and nuclear disarmament becomes the rule of times - which it will - they won’t have much of a choice. 

Join the system, or be doomed to be nothing more than a chess piece all over again.

Ocelot has spent the past nine years making friends. Paying some off with some of what he’s still got hidden. A careful balance of ardent promises, unspoken threats, and the mutual enemy none of them can quite see. The enemy of an enemy may indeed be a friend, but Ocelot keeps them all in the same back pocket. Or a sealed briefcase, a microdot or a floppy disk, even a scattering of post office boxes. As it were. 

In the end Ocelot is his own best friend. There will be more than enough eyes on the phantom, and if John does refuse to change his face - which Ocelot suspects he will - he’ll be safely in his Kalahari foxhole anyways.

The soldiers John will be working with later will have nowhere to go when the CIA pulls out of Namibia. Russia is already on the verge of leaving Ethiopia, stretched thin by the lingering war in Afghanistan. The foundations of heaven are already in place. The Patriots won't care about darkest Africa. All John needs to do to raise an army is wait, really. 

The situation with Miller might have led to a slight - very slight, insignificant - change in plans, but Ocelot never makes a plan without leaving some leeway. Besides, no matter what happens, Miller won’t be a problem for John much longer. 

Ocelot didn't forget a thing.

 

 

Miller didn’t break. 

Ocelot’s fingers twitch at the edge of the blanket. The soldiers were horny puppies, he knows, but he’d like to see the damage for himself. Strip off the blanket, flip him over and spread his thighs. Count the bruises. Yank out the rectal catheter to see if he’s still bleeding. 

Stick his own cock in and remind him how a real spetsnaz fucks - hah, no, that won’t be happening for a while. Never again, in fact. 

Ocelot frowns. Pulls his hand off the man’s cheek and settles for unwrapping the stumps. They did excellent work on the arm, but the leg is a mess. Must have been blown off in the initial attack. Sloppy how they fractured the entire shin. Miller will be feeling that for months. 

He changes the bandages quickly. Arranges him on his bed like a little doll, careful of all the tubes in him. Pulls up the blanket when Miller shivers. Feels the bones in his remaining hand. There’s bandages still over his eyes, meaning the blinds in this room are still open, and as the light shifts and glows orange Miller shivers and mumbles in his sleep. Nurses come to clean his IV and catheters, replace his various bags . Next time Ocelot will do it himself. It’s not good for the staff to see their XO like this. 

Snake comes in, sweaty from his PT. It’s still work with him. He meets Ocelot’s eyes, sucks in his lower lip. 

“Has he woken at all?”

“We’re still keeping him under.” 

Snake hovers over the bed, shoulders slumped. His hand is so gentle on Miller’s forehead, brushing back his hair unnecessarily. Ocelot has been wiping the sweat off him. His hair’s clinging and clumped. 

“He’ll be fine,” Ocelot says quietly. 

The phantom doesn’t respond. With a sigh he leans forward, looks like he’s about to kiss Miller on the forehead before changing his mind. His red hand squeezes Miller’s wrist and Ocelot moves his own hand just in time. 

Ocelot needs to forget this whole scene, very soon. The phantom stops him from leaving with a single lost look. 

“Yes, Boss?”

“Kaz did this for me.”

Ocelot nods. The phantom sighs. 

“I mean, everything. This base. Diamond Dogs.” He smiles at the name, briefly. “Kaz did all of this for me, while I was asleep.”

“He had some help.”

“I know. That’s why I need to ask you. Do I trust him?” 

What the hell did John do. “Of course you do. Miller’s been your partner for years. Never let you down once.” 

“I didn’t trust him for a long time. Don’t know if I ever did.” He looks down at Miller, worrying the scar in his lip. “How do I make it up to him?”

Ocelot smiles reassuringly. “You’ll figure it out.”

“I don’t even know where to begin,” he sighs.

Ocelot snaps his fingers. Says the words. This early, it really is that easy.

The phantom’s head snaps up.

Ocelot tells him where to begin.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Of course the entire main command office is bugged, including the back room that quickly becomes Miller’s new quarters. Snake’s quarters that he never uses are bugged as well, just in case. It’s Miller who set up most of these systems in the first place. Not a fly buzzes on Mother Base that Miller doesn’t know about.

Except for a few, tiny flies, that fly silently and touch nothing. Ocelot doesn’t listen to Miller choke out sobs in the middle of the night, or punch walls in frustration, or knock coffee over his scrawled charts and scream hoarsely before banging his head on the desk.

He definitely doesn’t listen to Snake’s patient consolations and breathy kisses. Their relationship is none of Ocelot’s concern. And he certainly doesn’t listen to the first time they fuck.

It takes _weeks_ for them to get there and when it happens it’s frankly boring. Certainly not enough to get Ocelot up. He turns off Miller’s whimpers and Snake’s sweet little nothings. He knows how Miller really likes to be fucked.

Drunk off his ass, sloppy, and with teeth buried in his neck. Ocelot always had to shove in a finger or two along with his cock just to get him as stuffed as he liked. If Ocelot was riding him he liked it slow and slutty, Ocelot twisting his hips before leaning over to grab his throat.

In the back of a jeep, in their first helicopter, in a freezing shack in the Afghan mountains, in a medical tent in the Ethiopian highlands, that one time in the schmaltzy guest bedroom of the arms dealer they ripped off, and yes, that first night on Mother Base, when they broke out the coke for the first time in a long time and he fucked Miller until he was sobbing. Ocelot will never forget how it tasted, the way the tears watered down the semen on his face laced with the acrid tang of cocaine.

Ocelot wipes the come off his gloves and turns the mic back on. They haven’t even started yet. Snake’s just kissing him. But then Miller makes a sound that he only makes when he’s got his dick in something. Interesting.

Snake’s never been one to take it slow or, really, to _take it._ A few times, maybe, but --

Not that Ocelot would know anything about that.

Snake’s breath hitches and now there’s a pretty picture. Thick thighs straddling Miller’s hips, his back arching off the bed. His one eye looking down at Miller, lips parted as he rides cock the way he does everything else.

Something must be wrong with that mic. It shouldn’t have turned back on at all. DD’s woken up now and decided to nibble on Ocelot’s boots. He chides the pup and sends him back to bed. DD curls up, whimpering, and he’s only a baby. Still missing his mother, the tumbling of his siblings. 

Sometimes DD yips in the middle of the night, but it’s best not to spoil babies.

 

 

Miller’s typically one surly son of a whore when his boyfriend is off base. Even when Snake is around he’s still cagey and bitter. Breaks down when he hears the Russians on base talking. When Snake departed in the morning Ocelot braced for the inevitable onslaught, but Miller’s a little _off_ today.

A happy Miller is an entirely new breed of monster.

Every time Ocelot tries to turn down the boombox Miller turns it back up. It’s one of those horrible tapes Miller was obsessed with making back in the day, as if Snake would come out of a coma with a greater appreciation for keytars and saxophones.

“And so I told him, he’s making six times what his entire village could make selling goat pussy in a year and if he wants to complain he can - christ, are you even listening to me?”

“Of course.”

“You look like shit,” Miller says, shades looming in Ocelot’s face. “When’s the last time you ate? You do know how to eat, right? When your tummy hurts and you feel sleepy, mommy gives you a big bowl of borscht before you can go out and play again. Here.” He digs in a drawer and pulls out some kind of garish packet. “I always keep some kind of snack on me.”

“I’d start keeping an eye on your caloric intake if I were you, Miller.” Ocelot eyes the packet. Wasabi-flavored peas? His stomach is making odd sounds, but he’ll be all right. “Now that your PT’s gone to hell…”

Miller grabs the bag and opens it with a pop. “At least Snake’ll still fuck me when I’m a fat cripple,” he says blithely, and pops two green spheres in his mouth.

Ocelot doesn’t bother telling him that it isn’t like that with him and the Boss, it never has been. Let Miller keep his vanity. He grabs a couple peas and puts them in his mouth and his tongue goes numb. It’s going up in his nose and now it _burns_ , it takes a minute to really kick in.

He can’t breathe. And by the way he’s laughing, neither can Miller. Of course Ocelot knew wasabi was spicy. He can handle some chili. He just wasn’t ready for... that.

“Oh - my - god,” Miller snorts. He wipes his face. “Does kitty wants some milk? That won’t help, by the way, it’s not capsaicin. You’re SOL.”

Ocelot lets himself cough just once. “Not in the habit of shoving chemical weapons in my mouth.”

“Right, only on days that end in Y. Come on,” he says, shaking the packet. “Think of it as drug resistance training.”

So Ocelot eats another. Miller’s grin gets wider and wider, matching him pea by pea without breaking a sweat.

It’s a good day. Ocelot secures a great deal on helicopter armor Miller screams about. Snake’s chopper drops him off safely Afghanistan and there’s six incredibly tense hours when he gets spotted by a Soviet sniper team.

“I know you can’t break your cover,” Miller grouses when it all ends in blood, “but you might do a bit more to help him out there. Redirect a shipping route or something for once.”

“I’m special forces, Miller. Intelligence. These men aren’t under my command.”

"They could be."

“Sure. I’ll just stride in to the base camp giving out orders to pay no mind to the one-eyed man in the sands. What would that do?”

Miller flinches and - ah. It’s not a good day anymore.

Ocelot can see the minute shivers Miller hopes his coat hides. Knows exactly what his eyes look like behind the glasses. He’s seen it in prisoners often enough. The ones who never broke, only dropped their heads and went dead. The ones who went to Jupiter even while being raped and flagellated. Something Miller clearly wasn't able to do. Ocelot could say the right word in the right tone right now and send Kaz all the way back to Ghwandai.

Severe trauma makes indelible marks on the mind. The memories can't be erased, but they can be altered. For example:

1964 in the jungle while the love of your life is -

Yes. 1964, in the jungle. When he met Snake for the first time. Saw his hands shake around the knife and knew that day would mark him forever, that no matter what Ocelot could do for him in the years to come there'd still be nights of cold sweats. Anyone can go into the black, and he'd seen Snake fall that moment.

Miller has a business to run and a man to support. Miller can't let himself slip into that like this, and Miller needs to be able to hear the Russian recruits talking on base between themselves without breaking into a sweat.

There’s a recent Soviet volunteer still in the brig who will serve nicely. The man understands - he could be a spy, they haven’t properly vetted him yet. XOF has taken recruits from all over the world, indeed.

Miller swallows while Ocelot questions him in Russian. Turns pale under the red lights when Ocelot hands him the stun rod. This is easy, this is interrogation 101. Miller is more than proficient. But this isn’t Ethiopia, or Mozambique, or even the early days in Afghanistan. No, this man was last stationed in Da Ghwandai Kar. Arrived two weeks ago, sure, but the name alone is what matters.

Day one, Miller manages to swallow back his vomit until Ocelot takes mercy and takes over.

Day two, Miller grabs a blade with a white-knuckled hand. He botches the job, but the man's a little too preoccupied with the blood he's losing to notice if his torturer's hand shakes.

Day three, Miller _laughs._ Leans in and whispers something that makes the last bit of life go out in the prisoner’s eyes.

Then he lifts his crutch and shoves the rubber tip down the prisoner's throat. Ocelot can't see his face, but he hears Miller tell him  _suck_ , sees the prisoner's throat bulge, as Miller forces it deeper and deeper until he finally vomits.

"Disgusting," Miller says, brisk English this time. "Now I've got to go clean this off."

He pivots, skipping his crutch over the vomit and blood to stalk away. There's a taut smile at his lips and when he walks past Ocelot to open the door his coat brushes Ocelot's thigh -

Miller’s breath hitches when he’s grabbed and dragged and pushed against the wall in the hallway. He’s salty under Ocelot’s lips - only sweat, the tears stopped on the second day - and struggles, tries to kick, but all Ocelot needs to do is knock his crutch aside with a well-placed spur. Use the other to dig where the prosthetic meets his stump.

“Oce- I fucking told you - get the fuck off me you sick fucking freak -”

There’s bile inside his mouth, but he didn’t vomit.

“I’m going to suck your cock,” Ocelot tells him - in Russian. Of course.

Yes, there’s at least two words there Miller knows and it's enough to make him go limp. Croak one final garbled protest before falling to the floor with Ocelot between his legs. Still shivering, but Ocelot gets him hard in seconds, sucking sloppy and wet with all technique thrown to the wind. He has to put Miller’s hand in his hair, fiddles with his fingers until Miller gets the hint and tugs hard. That’s good. Now Ocelot can make it good for him.

When Miller finally goes limp and shudders in his mouth Ocelot swallows every drop. It’s bitter, like Miller isn’t eating well at all.

“You’re so fucked,” Miller whispers. “You make me -”

“Sick?”

“Fucking nauseous.” Miller kisses him. Shivers until Ocelot pulls him closer and runs a hand down his back. Then finally, _finally_ he goes still.

Creating positive experiences while revisiting past trauma works in therapy. Reliving the memory in a safe environment rearranges the connections in the mind, and there's nothing better than a surge of endorphins to do the trick. Miller's high on dopamine right now, boneless in the arms of the man he's trusted for the past nine years.

Ocelot pulls off his neck when he realizes Miller is crying. When he lifts the glasses up Miller doesn't even blink. Maybe he's all the way back in Costa Rica now, or in his mom's little one-stop shop for blowjobs and cigarettes. So fragile Ocelot might not even need the serum hidden in his sleeve.

He's read a bit about hypnosis techniques. Ultimately deemed as inefficient in interrogation practices. Too easy for the interrogator to slip into the victim's mind, bring out what he wants the subject to say rather than what the subject actually knows.

It'll do for now.

Miller did a good job interrogating the prisoner. Ocelot helped him. Ocelot who didn't know where he was being held, who did everything he could to save him, who galloped straight to Ghwandai on a white horse with Snake at his back to rescue him. 

So they’re outside in the salt air, wind whipping off the sea. Ocelot squints in the sunlight, wonders where he left his sunglasses.

“Thank you,” Miller says suddenly, in the low tight voice that means he’s being genuine. Miller is always uncomfortably genuine. “Ocelot, if it wasn’t -”

“He’ll break soon. I give him two more days.”

“Hell, we could just throw him into the sea right now. Save us some time.”

“Snake’s due back tonight.”

“You think I tell him about every bright-eyed dickwad who turns up here? Besides, it’s not like he fultoned them in.”

Ocelot smiles. By the time Snake’s dragged a man into the middle of desert and let him wake up defenseless with a living legend offering cold hard cash and an easy contract, they’d have to be exceptionally stupid to turn him down. But spies are indeed everywhere.

Miller gives Ocelot a brief reminder of that cunning smile. Same one he gave Ocelot six years ago, across the table from that one arms dealer while they sipped his bourbon and - 

The prisoner is eighteen years old. A fairly slight bundle even when wrapped with rocks.

Miller stands at the edge until long after he's sunk. Doesn't speak a word to anyone until Snake comes back to base. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, I'm posting a WIP. I'm a bad, bad, boy. But I have this *mostly* written though but frankly AO3 only gives you 30 days to keep something in drafts? I still appreciate feedback, though.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the chapter where I said, oh! I got a supply drop fill in! but.... oh. no.

“You’re extracting _him?_ ”

Ocelot doesn't know what's got Miller's panties in a twist. They've got plenty of fine recruits from the mujahiddin. This one fought to survive, not out of any pure ideological feelings for the motherland. Supposedly a field medic - clearly not trained by Miller or Ocelot back in the day when they first began to work this particular region. No, back in Ghazni his hands were more suited to readjusting a baby goat in utero than pulling out shrapnel from a human torso.

Snake straps on the fulton device. “We don't have any specialized veterinarians on base.”

“Good thinking, Boss,” Ocelot says over Miller’s groans.

“That reminds me. Can you send the latest report from the conservation platform? I’m worried about Marshmallow. She seemed to be getting sick before I left.”

“I’ll get right on that,” Ocelot promises, but Miller is spitting now.

“Who the hell is _Marshmallow_?”

“Marshmallow. Two year old Cashmere. The one with a big white fluffy butt.” Snake chuckles. "Real cutie."

“All of them have big white fluffy butts, Snake.”

"Ah, you’ll know her when you see her.”

“Yeah, I just can't wait to meet her.”

“Kaz.”

“You’re worse than... god, some of those vegan types I went to school with."

“I've been telling the mess hall we ought to try a Meatless Monday.”

“Yeah, well. The sixties are over, pal.”

Ocelot raises an eyebrow Miller ignores. He’s heard Miller mention - once or twice, while incredibly drunk - some old hippie boyfriend he’d had back in the day. No, nothing like the nonstop orgy Miller grunted and sweated through his entire life before Snake. This one was special. They had a _connection._

There's another thing Ocelot could add about meatless diets and certain resulting flavors, but Miller's still going at it.

“Sure, I love animals. Between two buns and covered in ketchup. Tell you what. You fulton those goats in, and I'll get the coals lit.”

Snake shuts off his radio.

“Oh for the love of -”

“What’s with you, Miller?" Ocelot leans back in his chair. Puts a boot up between Miller and the controls. "You’re not spending a dime on these animals.”

“Fulton devices cost money. And the staff assignments alone -”

“Let the Boss have his pets.”

“Marshmallow. Jesus.”

“She’s a real beauty.” He thinks he knows which one she is. Snake takes an awful lot of pictures of his goats.

“You know he does this when he’s dissociating,” Miller snaps. “Every time he gets confused all he starts talking about is how damn cute his hedgehogs are. He can’t afford to waste time doing that in the field, and we can’t afford to indulge him like that. He needs actual help, Ocelot.”

“What do you think I trained DD for?”

"Some days, I swear, the only person he talks to is that dog."

It's true, though. Snake needs someone else in the field with him sometimes.

Miller’s fears come true soon enough. Snake is so busy catching zebras - in the middle of a mission, no less - he wanders straight into a Skull sniper’s line of sight. Miller screams himself hoarse. Ocelot takes over, directing him to find cover, to run, to let DD lead the way out of the valley where the cliffs bristle with rifles.

By nightfall Snake’s made it to a burnt-out shack in the middle of nowhere and Miller is breathing again. But the Boss is clearly still having a hard time of it. Mumbling to DD, not taking the chance to eat or drink and choosing his cigar instead.

“Might be a good time to catch a nap, Boss,” Ocelot tells him.

“Can’t sleep.”

“The mind starts to slip after -”

Snake laughs, harsh. “After seventy two hours the hallucinations start, right? Better watch out for that.”

“All I’m saying is, a bit of shuteye won’t hurt. We’ll wake you up if we pick up anything out there.”

“Can’t sleep,” Snake says, clipped. "It's fine."

It’s been nearly seventy two hours since Snake last slept. Ocelot sighs and looks at Miller, who only scratches his chin. Time for the wife to step in.

“Boss,” Miller says, hesitant. “You have that tape I gave you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You know. The one I gave you last week. Your Isley Brothers mix.”

“That one…”

“It’s a good one, huh? See if you have it.”

Clattering sounds as Snake rifles through his scattered kit. “Yeah," he swallows. "I got it.”

“What's your favorite song on it?”

“Hmm. Summer Breeze.. makes me feel fine?"

“Yeah, that’s how it goes. Why don't you listen to that?”

Snake plays it over his speaker. It's a smooth one, with a juicy baseline that starts slow and rolls nicely. The Isley Brothers croon about the smell of jasmine while Snake's breathing slows. By the time it fades out, Snake is asleep. Mission accomplished.

“You didn’t know?” Miller asks, all nonchalant. “He’s always loved that song.”

 

 

They’re fucking again. No, _making love,_ between the sheets all night according to the man crooning on the radio. At the rate they're going, it really will take that long.

“You always loved them.” Miller is saying. “Remember? You’d sing Who’s That Lady to Nuke all the time - no, you changed the words.”

“Who’s that kitty?”

“Fine, fluffy kitty,” Miller laughs. Liquid sloshes, wine from the way they’re giggling and slurred. “That was it. You had no idea I was watching you. Just dancing around the medbay with that cat in your arms.”

“Nuke?” Snake sounds hesitant. “The little black cat.”

“Yeah.”

“I remember this song. I - you were by the fire -”

“And you wouldn’t stop looking at me.”

“Thought he was going to kill me,” Snake laughs.

“Who?”

Silence.

“Tell me. Who was going to kill you?”

The phantom gasps. Bed-springs creak.

"I know it's you," Miller says, brokenly. "I always knew you'd be like this. Please -" 

Miller says a name that doesn't exist. 

In the morning both the Boss and Commander Miller have fallen ill. A strange bug Snake caught in Africa. There’s a lot out there in the jungle that hasn't even been discovered, let alone had a vaccine developed for it. 

The phantom is easy. The phantom is nothing to worry about.

The staff is no stranger to private staff meetings late in the night between the Commander and Ocelot. Miller’s sick, but awake and talking, and Ocelot has a handy stack of files and a radio. It’s maybe 0200 hours, but Miller is also known to keep erratic sleeping habits. Besides, Ocelot is proficient enough in basic nursing to be left alone.

Morphine isn’t on his medication schedule, but no one will look twice if a man in chronic pain indulges from time to time. And once Ocelot starts the tape, summer breeze is indeed making him feel fine.

“It’s 1974,” Ocelot tells him. “Humid in the jungle. Never quiet here. Do you hear the birds?”

Miller mumbles something about quetzals.

“Been a long day, but you just made a lot of money,” Ocelot says as he pulls back the sheet. He can’t go into too much detail. It’s a general and interchangeable memory he’s trying to create here. “You’re in a tent, sweating under mosquito netting, and Snake is coming for you.”

“Snake?” He twitches. Flinches. Ocelot lays a gentle hand on his chest, reaching under his shirt.

“You’ve seen the way he looks at you in the firelight. The legendary soldier who still cuddles cats. You've been waiting for this, haven't you? Wanting him for so long." Ocelot strokes down his belly, looming over him. "Snake’s here now, though. And he’s going to kiss you just like this.”

Just like this: tender breathy kisses, gasping in his mouth and sucking on Miller’s tongue. Trailing damp kisses on his stubble, nibbling down his neck.

“Kaz,” Ocelot sighs, dropping his voice just a bit and roughing it up just so. His lips brush Miller’s ear and it isn’t quite right, the sparse mustache he has is too finely trimmed. On the other hand, the medic was always clean-shaven, in every photo Ocelot has seen. The tactile memory, the visual one - they’ll blur together.

Miller’s leaning in, raising himself on his elbow. Snake crawls on top of him, still trying to kiss him, because Snake would never let him go. Miller tries to mumble something every time Ocelot stops to let him breathe, words Ocelot silences with his own tongue. He lets Ocelot pull off his shirt.

There’s new fat on his trunk Ocelot can knead. New knots in his shoulders. Ocelot drops back. Rests his head on his chest and kisses the patchy hairs there. Miller’s fingers reach for his head, run through his hair.

“Beautiful,” Oce- Snake tells him. “Beautiful, Kaz.”

He has to be careful not to touch the stumps. Miller’s not in pain right now - no, he’s whole and young. Then again, Miller wouldn’t feel it if he traced the scars of his stump.

Snake pulls down his boxers gently. He’s half-way hard already, tip peeking out from the foreskin. and all he has to do is kiss it, lap at the tip and nuzzle his balls to finish the job. When he’s fully erect he swallows him whole - Miller likes it wet - but Miller makes a sound and he has to pull off to suck his lower lip. The song has changed. One of their newer songs. Let's get it on, indeed.

He has to physically separate himself to get his clothes off. Kaz whimpers and it’s not cold in here, it shouldn’t be so cold but then he’s back on Miller’s skin and his cock is pressing into the softness of Miller's belly. His thighs are shaking when he reaches behind himself. It doesn’t take much to get him ready. He’s gotten Miller’s cock wet enough, the surgical lubricant isn’t even necessary, and all he has to do is just raise his hips and _yes_.

Perfect, he’s  _perfect_ and it’s been forever - the odd horny soldiers don’t matter, Ocelot never lets them do this -

No. This isn't about him.

“ _Kaz,_ ” Snake sighs. 

Miller gasps when he raises himself up and slides back down. Moans and reaches for his hip when he rolls just so. Oce- Snake shivers on his cock, sinks low and drapes himself forward until he can press his forehead against Miller’s. Taste the sweat before leaning back on his arms and fucking himself, not too fast, he can’t make too much noise. He stuffs his scarf in Miller's mouth because Miller is mumbling now, the radio isn't loud enough -

Ocelot bites his hand when he comes in short, messy spurts, the other one clenched around his cock. Miller’s still hard. It’ll take him a long time like this, but Ocelot can stay here in the afterglow until he’s ready to work his cock again. His second orgasm is purely a prostrate one and takes him by surprise. It’s been a long time, but John trained him to work without a reacharound years ago. Not quite as generous as Miller in that respect.

Speaking of generosity.

Miller has to be stretched enough from his encounters with Snake. No one will notice anything. A few baby wipes take care of everything so he can work Miller open with his tongue, bury his face there and _taste_ until Miller's convulsing and sweating and so close, finally so close -

“ _Ocelot,_ ” Miller hisses, and jerks, spilling on Ocelot’s face.

It's okay.

The drugs wore off. That’s all. He took too long and the drugs wore off. Ocelot is prepared for this, was prepared for this. Miller’s still feeble and confused enough.

It’s okay. Ocelot’s got this. He cleans up the mess on his chest. Tugs his boxers up, pulls his shirt on. Can’t help the stains on the hospital bed, but Miller had an interesting wet dream last night. 

 

 

“It’s handled,” Adam says.

“Really? Because it sure as hell didn’t take long for -”

“Keeping Miller away from this was your decision. I told you there would be complications. Ones I’m more than equipped to deal with.”

“You promised me he’d he under control.”

“He is.”

“Sure as hell doesn’t sound like it.”

He’s grumpy. Why? He’s tracking terrorists in the desert, working solo in the wilderness, he should be thrilled. There’s more than enough money for him, all he has to do is ask, and he already knows Eva is in Johannesburg - taking care of all those small things John can't be bothered with and Ocelot has't the time for, none the less.

“Don’t worry about it, Boss. When have I ever let you down?”

“Hm. Almost out of smokes, here,” but it’s teasing now.

“Deal with it,” Adam tells him fondly, and hangs up. He rolls back in his chair and pats his thigh, but that's right. DD hasn't been sleeping in here for a while now.

Adam looks away from the empty dog bed and considers the relative simplicity of sublingual injections.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the part where I say, I sure hope you read [The Man from Cyrene](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12197427/chapters/27695832) first. This entire fic was born out of a single line Ocelot has in the first chapter, and the next chapter contains crucial context for the ending of that fic.
> 
> Also the part where I Deeply Regret not having my Quiet fic anywhere near finished yet.

The thing about Quiet that is absolutely nothing could stop her from phasing through the locked doors of a comms room. Nothing that could stop her from damn near anything. She sits in her cell like a good girl while god only knows what the parasites are seeing.

Nothing happens. Ocelot keeps her guns cleaned and oiled, lets her be the partner in the field Snake has been needing.

Whatever her intentions are, her plans have changed, and she isn’t talking. Refuses to write when handed pen and paper. Teaching her sign language is like teaching a fish to ride a bike, and Snake wouldn't want him to -

Find out if she'd truly rather die than speak.

But Ocelot understands. Miller is chomping at the bit to tear her to shreds, and perhaps she’s heard enough about Ocelot to not trust him either. They were both XOF number one and two targets for years. She’ll show up for the odd bit of target practice, play safe with her rifle like a good girl, but they aren’t friends.

Shame. Ocelot thinks they could be great friends.

In love with the legend, yeah. Ocelot has been there. Wasn’t that his mission, back in 1964? He couldn’t kill him either.

As for Miller… if she was a spy they’d all be at the bottom of the sea. Miller isn’t stupid, just paranoid. Sometimes though, in private conversations with a trusted friend and a bit of gin, Miller will let slip the real reasons why she terrifies him.

“Can you even imagine sticking it in that thing?” Miller’s snarling and sour with gin. Ocelot desperately needed him to review staff assignments, interrupting his precious burgers-in-the-dark time Ocelot surely has never seen, so they had a drink or two. “He tried to give me some kind of free-love spiel the other day. How much acid did you feed him back in the 60's?”

“Since when are you so committed to monogamy?”

“Since - you don’t fucking count. He was in a coma. I told him about us.”

Did he.

“He didn’t even care. No, he was happy about it. Can you believe that shit? Said maybe it'd help us get along better if I started sucking your pencil dick again.”

“Why would he care what you did while he slept?”

“You don’t get it. Snake… he takes this kind of thing seriously.”

“Massive frontal lobe trauma can alter personality,” Ocelot says glibly. “In the meantime, sorry I can’t be your marriage counselor.”

Things with Quiet are quite under control. And when the motherland comes calling, Ocelot is perfectly able to take a few days off. Miller respects his relationship with the USSR - no, he’s happy to wave Ocelot off. He'll come back with plenty of good intel, maybe a new job or two.

Ocelot comes home with red dust on his boots. He sleeps the entire helicopter ride, wakes up sore in unexpected places. A squad of Diamond Dogs are ready to meet him, which would be unusual enough even if it wasn't 0300. Support, base development, medical - Miller's men. 

“The Commander asked us to escort you to his office as soon as you arrived,” is all Steel Agama will say.

Well, he was headed there anyways. He can't necessarily stay in touch with Mother Base among the Soviets, either. Ocelot dismisses them at the door, but they lower their heads and don’t move.

Ocelot walks into a scene from a fever dream.

Quiet’s boots are up on the desk. She’s got an iDroid in her hands, humming into the mic while scrolling through photos of water buffalo. Loud music is playing, that new Prince Miller was so desperate to get his hands on. She’s wearing Miller’s damn beret.

The Commander himself is dazed on the tiny pleather couch behind her. An empty bottle of cheap rum on the floor. Glasses tossed the floor, coat and tie off, still a bit of white powder at his nostrils.

“Here he is!” Miller crows, raising the empty bottle in a toast. “Good old Major Ocelot. How was Afghanistan, huh? Got anything good for me?”

Quiet stares through Ocelot for an instant before disappearing in a cloud of smoke.

“Got yourself a girlfriend, Miller?”

“Pretty hot, huh?” Miller smiles with his teeth. “It was a ruse, see. To see if she’d send a message to any of her old black ops buddies. And she - hah, she tricked me and drugged me and then sent Snake into a secret Cipher base. He’s dead. She won. Whoops.”

“I see. That’s a shame.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Miller barks. “She’s not the fucking spy. And even if she was, that’s exactly what you’d want.”

“Miller, I -" Ocelot pinches the bridge of his nose. "What the hell would I want a spy on base for?”

“When I was in Afghanistan. Waiting for you. Remember?” Miller slips into something conversational. “I saw you, yeah. I saw Major Ocelot riding a big, white... _cock_." He snorts. Remembers there's still some blow on his face. "What’d John say, huh? Ocelot, make sure that thing fucks him right or he’ll go straight back to sucking Cipher cock. Was that it?”

“That's enough out of you,” Ocelot snaps. “You drank on the job, gave a potential spy access to all of our equipment and we have no idea what she might have done -”

“Shut up. Listen to me. I don't care. Bang the old commando shithead all you want. Nasty - fat - fucking - dick he doesn't even know how to goddamn use.” He wipes his eyes. “I’m not going to make you reveal your master plan, I’m not going to talk. Quiet doesn’t know, you can leave her alone. I don't give a rabid rats ass whatever the hell you get up to. I'm done."

"So what, now I'm the spy? You listening to yourself, or the blow?"

"Just one thing before you put a bullet in my head, all right? One question. All I got.”

Ocelot waits.

“How long does he have?”

“Who?”

“You know who. The man you and Zero mutilated. The one whose brain you used as a cocksleeve for your, whatever, your MK Ultra bullshit. You don’t even know his goddamn name, do you?”

Ocelot kneels by the couch. Puts a hand on Miller’s arm. He's not fighting it. 

“Tell me how long he’s got till you run out of use for him and dump him off somewhere in the desert too.”

Ocelot's hand moves to his neck. No, he's crying now. 

"You don't - just let me do it. I'll take care of him. We'll go somewhere far away. You can even stash us somewhere in Siberia if you want, huh? Just don't - you don't have to, I swear -"

The needle is right inside his sleeve. Not that he needs much when Miller is this trashed.

"I know. I shouldn't even bother. You don't give a shit what happens. To me. To him. Nah." He smiles even while he sobs. "You know John'll curb stomp you too the moment you stop being useful to him. Yeah, like the dick is that good. Give me a break."

The tip of the needle scrapes his skin.

"Go on," he urges, tilting back his head. Baring his neck. "Do whatever the hell you've been doing. Make me forget already."

Not that Ocelot was waiting for permission.

Ocelot carries Miller to his bed. Wipes him clean when he pukes on himself. Parts his lips with a thumb. His jaw is locked tight. When he slips his cock in this time, he'll won't have to push on Miller's cheeks to get the right kind of friction.

Ocelot pulls out his fingers and wipes his gloves on the sheet. Waits for him to come to just enough.

There’s a spiel he’s done before. Miller’s just bent over his crutch all the time. Snake was always an inch shorter than Miller but of course the phantom had to have an entire three inches over John and it’s stupid, it’s insane to think that anyone could possibly trick his old lover -

But of course Snake is different. What did Miller expect? They’re all different. Nine years is a long time. But Snake is here, and while he loves Miller very much indeed he’d love him more if he took a goddamn shower every once in a while because Quiet is this close to stealing him away. The whore is using her body to lure him in, right before she cuts the cord and drops the knife and if Miller isn't vigilant, she'll win.

Trust no one, but count on Ocelot.

It's all old hat by now. Goes like clockwork.

Ocelot jerks off in the bathroom with one glove stuffed in his mouth. Throws in one more suggestion that Miller can splurge on retrofitting it to suit him better. At least a bar in the shower.

The men are still waiting by the door after Miller’s passed out. Ocelot leaves the door open long enough for them to see the empty bottles. One of the men actually apologizes to Ocelot. A woman bites her lip, asks if the Commander is all right.

The older staff, the one Miller keeps closest to him, trust Ocelot. Even before Ocelot joined full-time, they all knew. The odd Russian showed up from time to time, disappeared in the Commander’s office, rode in the jeep with him. Didn’t talk too much, but when he did it was important.

"The Commander had a time-sensitive matter to discuss. In person." Ocelot tells them. "Nothing to worry about, thanks to your immediate escort."

They don't reply.

"I'm sure you've heard rumors of a spy on base. I won't deny that there's nothing to them. But the Commander and I are handling it, ourselves. You understand."

"Yeah, but -" Steel Agama bites his lip. Some of them aren't quite sure how to behave considering Ocelot has no official rank. It's all right. Ocelot is a brother to his men. "Is Commander Miller going to be okay? I mean... it's not really a secret on support anymore. Or anywhere."

Yeah, Miller wasted a lot of money putting up those dumb 1984 signs. Ocelot sighs. "You're a soldier, aren't you?"

"Yeah. I mean, before Mother Base..."

"Then you know. Anyone can go into the black. And there's no shame in needing a comrade to pull you through to the light again."

They understand. When Ocelot dismisses them, they thank him and salute.

 

Quiet doesn't stick around much longer after that.

The second parasite outbreak throws the entire base into a funk. Snake is drifting further and further into his own head every day. Miller starts rubbing cocaine on his gums and the staff give him a thirty foot radius at all times. Ocelot can’t leave the base, not now. He needs to keep his radio transmissions to an absolute minimum. John can grow the hell up and talk to Eva if he needs anything. Doesn't need to call Ocelot from the inside of a Casspir, jumbled and distorted as it rumbles through Namibia, demanding updates.

"If this isn't an emergency, I -"

"It is an emergency."

"What," Adam asks, "could you possibly need from me right now."

"I want some of those MKIIIs. Don't tell me you let Kaz teach you how to be a cheap bastard. Hey, speaking of Kaz -"

"Don't worry about Miller."

"Right. You've got him under control."

"Yes."

"Business keeping you busy, then?"

Adam scratches the scars on his arm.

"Too busy to _answer me_ when I goddamn call you. I'm out here in the field, the only people you expect me to trust are that other spying bitch and a new crop of suits, but yeah. I get it. You're just so busy."

“I don’t need you doubting me at a time like this,” Ocelot snaps, and hangs up. Unplugs the tangle of cords under the desk with a swift tug of a boot.

Well. That's that.

Adam will deal with it later. 

Because in the space of one single day Venom drops some line that sends Kaz into a fit and not two hours after he’s dealt with that the phantom bashfully asks him about Eva, and after _that_ he drops his revolver during target practice. The latest recruits are staring at him and he isn’t sure why.

Right. His Colt.

It’s not fitting in the holster.

“Ocelot?” Someone asks, and now Jade Tree Frog is kneeling over him.

There is no possible way he can -

Adam spends hours apologizing to John. But still. He can't.

“Miller will notice if he suddenly develops morphine resistance, or worse, an addiction," Adam says. "I can’t keep putting him under like this. It's time to bring him in. Both of them.”

“No.”

“John -”

“You said you’d take care of him. Do it.”

John once promised Miller he’d be his _kaishaku._

“He isn’t going anywhere. And he certainly isn’t talking to anyone. John, I don’t think he -”

“Stop protecting him.”

“I’m telling you he’s more likely to throw himself into the sea than talk.”

“You told me Kaz lost half his body for me. You told me Kaz didn't break. And you know damn well that kind of loyalty comes at a price.”

Yeah, Adam knows.

"I'm counting on you to deal with him whatever way you deem necessary."

Yeah, Adam _knows._

“All right, kid. It's your mess,” John says finally, tightly. “Clean it up.”

Okay.

Adam sets down the needle.

Ocelot doesn't need it anyways.

 

 

“Come on,” Miller says. He’s all hyped up on this new job offer. “Those Walker Gears might be overgrown pieces of crap but there’s money in it. This whole show,” he says, circling the entire southern tip of the continent, “is a big fat goose bleeding golden eggs. We need to get in, and we need to get in now. We had fun in Rhodesia, right?”

“You’re trying to slip one past too many big players.” Ocelot taps the map, in the center of the new lines he's drawn. These are important lines. He'll explain it later.

“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you don’t know exactly what the motherland’s doing down there.”

“Exactly. Which means I know the situation better than you.”

“So? We'll do it right. Send some of your red beret boys down there first.”

“Miller, there’s nothing to discuss here. We can’t afford to get involved with the bush war.”

“Look, I dropped out of Ethiopia for you, all right? Just give me this,” Miller says, but he’s switching to pleading. Four years ago Miller would be sucking him off right now.

“Cipher’s already got a strong hold in the USSR, and you can bet your bottom dollar PLAN and SWAPO alike are crawling with spies,” Ocelot tells him. It's as true as Miller needs it to be. “You’re only asking for trouble.” 

He has something else to tell Miller, but he can’t quite recall. Miller is silent for a long time, shades immovable as ever.

“Jesus, you look like shit,” Miller says finally, and steals his cold coffee cup to down it in a gulp. “It’s decaf for you from now on. Go on, get out of here and go take a nap.”

Miller’s in a good mood. Why is he throwing Ocelot out now?

“That’s an order,” Miller adds.

At target practice every shot is three-quarters of an inch off center. Miller calls it a day, goes to hang out with Code Talker and comfort eat. On the medical platform Snake puffs to the clouds.

At night, Ocelot sits in his private office on the intel platform, the one he rarely uses. There’s radio equipment he doesn’t remember seeing before. His hands are limp on his knees.

Somewhere below a jeep screeches to a halt. He waits for a sweating, panting Miller to open the door, a sheaf of paper clutched in a shaking hand.

“We need to talk about Snake.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, you should for real read my [AU where Kaz is the post-credits conversation in the 1987 Metal Gear](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12197427/chapters/27695832) first. big big thanks to [heavvymetalqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavvymetalqueen/pseuds/heavvymetalqueen) for reading through and encouraging me to post this <3
> 
> Fun Fact: there's a whole theological debate about whether the wine with gall/vinegar offered to the dying christ (or, perhaps, that guy from cyrene) was intended as a mercy or a mockery - themes, right? Also, guess which real person whose name I skirted past this time.

The phantom has been in the small creatures room, cleaning the reptile enclosures all day. He smells like ammonia when Ocelot opens the door for him.

Ocelot opens it and gets bent over at the waist. Kissed, hard.

“What’s wrong?” the phantom asks. “It’s just me, Adam.”

Ocelot wipes his mouth. Sees blood on his glove.

Venom Snake never shows his teeth when he smiles. His gaze is patient and magnanimous as ever. He raises a red hand to adjust Ocelot’s scarf. “Two plus two equals four, right? Or was it five? I forget.”

Ocelot presses his lips together and turns away. There’s a revolver under his pillow. A shot on the bedside table. But Snake is relaxed, smiling.

His red hand is a vice around Ocelot’s throat.

“You've always been this voice inside my head,” he says, like he's still trying to figure it out. “Been trying to block it out with Chaka Khan. I'm every woman, right?”

Ocelot is dropped to the floor.

The phantom chuckles. “Don't worry. I'm not here for you. I'm here for that." He nods to the radio.

Ocelot gives John and his phantom some privacy.

Of course Ocelot can't leave Diamond Dogs right away, no matter how many staplers Miller hurls at him. Miller goes on a bender, all right: stuffing pot in his kiseru, ranting about goat milk. Still picking up three new contracts a day. If anything he's working harder than ever, if possible, and the phantom just shrugs and goes to Africa with his dog.

Ocelot's out by the end of the month.

Adam tells John about the disastrous fallout in the mess hall at a Koevoet base in the middle of the Kalahari. Not quite equipped with the facilities they'll need, but they'll get there.

John grabs his hand, interrupting. "You're shaking."

Adam snatches it back. "I'm fine. And I've still a few moles back at Mother Base, just in case."

"Hm. I'm not worried about that."

"...No?"

"I told you. That medic was always a weird guy." 

"Then it's settled, then."

"Hm. We'll see what happens." John stares, shoving a bite of goat in his mouth. "You gonna get a plate or not, kid?"

"Ate rations on the chopper."

"Eat something hot." Now John's pushing a piece of goat in his face. Adam swallows past the nausea and takes it. "Reminds me. We need to talk about one of my buddies in Uganda."

"What's in Uganda?"

"Kids. Soldiers, once we put them through some real training. Think you can handle their medication schedules?"

"This isn't what it looks like, John."

"No wonder you wanted to get off that base so badly." John narrows an eye. "Anyways. Uganda. Tomorrow, we're -"

"I'm going to the Soviet base camp in Afghanistan."

"Hm. Back to Mother Russia."

"For a while. If I'm going to be able to continue helping you here."

"Still quite the loyal patriot, I see," John grins.

Naturally. Adam leaves in the morning, silent enough that John sleeps throughout.

The truth is, the Patriots don't care much what happens in darkest Africa. Or brightest, if one waxed poetic about the sands of the Kalahari. To the Western - and Eastern - world, _Africa_ might as well be a single country. Ravaged by AIDS, famine, drought, something about 1860s neuroscience. Too much desert and jungle to support lasting infrastructure, and what they have has been ravaged by the big players for centuries now.

On that note, nor do Africans care about the differences between Ukraine and Siberia, or the ideological differences between capitalism and communism. Ocelot is sure they would even care less about John's alternative anarcho-capitalism. If that's a thing.

No, all South Africa needs to do is keep the mines running, buy the right weapons, and give up their nukes. The AI systems will have little to do with what happens in the desert. There's a local tribe around here that speaks in clicks Ocelot has only heard once.

The point being. 

This war isn't over yet. Sure, once the Iron Curtain falls, Major Ocelot can retire from the GRU. If John is patient, Adam will meet him again.

The only thing that's changed in their plans is that Adam left Diamond Dogs earlier than expected. Again. Ocelot never makes a plan without three backups and plenty of leeway.

That leeway is exactly how he can still serve as point of contact between Outer Heaven and Diamond Dogs. If that's what John needs. 

 

In 1988 Ocelot sets a rare, careful foot on Mother Base and is met with a rubber bullet to the forehead.

“WOLF!” Miller shouts, and now Ocelot can see a blond curly head peek from the top strut. “I’m not gonna scrape you off the deck once you fall from there!”

Ocelot kneels to meet DD, and the girl misses her next shot.

“Boss picked up some Iranian brats. Ignore her,” Miller says. The third bullet knocks off his beret. “I mean it, Wolf!”

“Trouble in paradise?”

“You have no idea. Snake’s the only one who can control that little beast.” Miller picks up his hat and stomps off the helipad, down the ladders that circle the command tower.

The new leg is a perfect fit. His hair is a little longer, swept into a low ponytail, and he’s stopped wearing that heavy coat. Not wearing the arm yet, but the empty sleeve of his jacket is neatly pinned.

Miller bends over the forms he’ll have to fill out to join the CND alliance, silent. A loose strand of hair falls over his forehead and Ocelot’s fingers twitch. Then Miller sits back and actually _laughs._ Closes the file folder and brings it to his lap when he puts his boots on the desk and crosses them like he's always been able to. “Is that it?”

“That’s it.”

“What, you don't need any cash this time?”

"We're quite fine."

"You know how John is," Miller says. "Thinks bullets grow on trees. Well. If that's it, we're good here."

When did John ask Miller for money? There's more than enough for him, but Ocelot knows when he’s being dismissed. Miller walks him back to the helipad with a swing in his step, whistling some odd tune.

When was the last time he saw Miller like that?

Right. That arms dealer they'd ripped off. In the guest bedroom when Miller scattered bills all over the bed and said he'd always wanted to fuck on a pile of money, yes, and Ocelot laughed and tackled him to the bed. Miller was talking about some old oil rig he might get a good deal on, and that money they'd sweated on would go towards it.

Ocelot had woken up to Miller grumbling and laying damp bills out in front of a fan.

In 1989 the Berlin Wall falls. Adam returns to the Kalahari base with a new friend from OKB-26-Madnar. The phantom and Miller have indeed sent an arsenal, and the checks they're taking from the CND to disarm every PF and tribal dictator in the region have gone to reinforced electric fences, armored helicopters, and yes, the latest model of Casspir. Construction on the third fortress is nearly complete.

John almost doesn't want to leave for Alaska, but it's got to be him. He whines about it. Says he's taking Miller with him. Adam has no idea how to explain to him that Miller won't be a part of FOXHOUND, but he supposes Miller makes his point well enough.

The next time he sees Miller - no. The last time he sees Miller he’s wearing the arm. He and the phantom sleep slumped on each other nearly the entire ride to Outer Heaven and when John kisses him he doesn’t even flinch. The phantom doesn’t even see Ocelot when he’s standing right next to him. His hair is tied in a long braid, and he can’t take his eyes off Miller either.

Yeah, they look pretty good.

 He'd like to say Alaska is good for John. That in the frozen North John becomes the bear he was always meant to be. That he relishes his semi-retirement, that he high-fives with Roy while clinking beers and that when he fucks Adam he doesn't go somewhere else after, spilling ash on the sheets and stinking up the entire room.

But the cold has always been kind to Ocelot. Yes, he hears the reports from Chad, from Angola. John doesn't need to worry about it. Not yet. When the time comes, Ocelot has the perfect suggestion.

So it is that Ocelot finds himself riding a white horse through the same jungle his mother once did. Taking his time maneuvering through the swamps. He appreciates the nostalgia just as much as John does, even if he can't quite remember that nineteen year old Major.

 _Zanzibar Land._ John's even nostalgic for Africa.

Whoever’s following him is small. Certainly isn’t trying to kill him - he’s left enough openings. His tracker leaves too many traces - broken twigs, less frogs than there ought to be, an occasional distant glint of a scope, and - there it is. A strand of golden curly hair, caught on a vine near a stream. Ocelot pretends he hasn't noticed. Roasts his fish on a brightly flickering fire.

His mother said personal feelings for comrades were one of the worst sins a soldier could commit.

Ah, but she’s long been dead.

He’ll let himself hear Miller’s voice, one last time.


End file.
